


Nocturne in the Key of B Solo

by Maloreiy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Classical References, F/M, HEA, Piano, Romantic Fluff, S&R:CRW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-25 07:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: One of Coruscant’s up-and-coming premier concert pianists, Ben Solo furiously practices classical pieces in his apartment every day. Occasionally, one of his neighbors slips a note under his door with a request. He never plays them. But sometimes he does wonder about the neighbor that’s always listening to him practice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GemOfAmara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GemOfAmara/gifts).



> So this is completely unexpected, but here's a little short Reylo story. I love the Reylo ship, and I am in awe of the amazing Reylo stories that belong to this ship. I never intended to write for them, but this story came to me based off a post in the Reylo group by GemOfAmara (the post of which is based off a picture by Ned.Dixon from Instagram). A big thank you to both of them, and now I'm so excited to be able to share it with you all.
> 
> This story has 8 short chapters, and is completely written, and I'll be posting them twice a week, Mondays & Thursdays, here and on FFN.

 

 

Ben Solo stomped into the lobby of his apartment building, irritation pouring off of him in waves. As usual, there was no one around at this time of day, so he went straight to the rickety old elevator and punched the button to the top floor where he lived.

As the elevator hummed and sputtered its way upwards, Ben reflected on his agent, Andrew Snoke, and how much he'd like to punch his face in.

Snoke had been dissatisfied with the final movement of Ben's sonata. To be fair, Snoke was  _never_  satisfied with Ben's work and was constantly driving him to a higher level of performance.

Most of the time, the ambition suited Ben well. He was determined to become a concert level pianist. Despite Snoke having promised him that the goal was attained, so far the critics (and his estranged family) refused to acknowledge him.

The concert performance he was preparing for in one month was supposed to be his biggest one. It would be the performance to silence all the naysayers—to prove beyond a doubt that he belonged among the circle of Coruscant's elite concert performers.

It would be his first performance in Coruscant Hall, and thanks to Snoke's aggressive advertising policy, the tickets were sold out.

The problem was that Ben insisted on debuting an original sonata. Snoke hated the idea and was doing everything he could to sabotage the original work, in favor of getting Ben to agree to perform any of the dozens of complex classical pieces that he'd been working on this past year.

But the original piece was the most important part to Ben.

Distantly, he remembered his Uncle Luke's sorrowful face as he told him that he just didn't have what it took to be a concert pianist—and especially not a composer—in the modern era.

"You just don't have the heart for it, Ben," Uncle Luke had said, shattering all of his dreams. "You play with fire and intensity on the outside, but it's like you're dead on the inside."

Just remembering the mortification he'd felt at those words caused Ben to wince. Not least because Snoke had said something similar that afternoon. He'd used different words, but he'd said that Ben's final movement was too 'cerebral.'

He said it tickled and challenged the mind, but the audience would never love it. And there was no sense playing it if there's no chance for the audience to fall in love with it.

The elevator door dinged and wheezed as it opened, and Ben angrily strode down the hall to his doorway. The old wooden door was faded and peeling, but the wooden letters marking the door 'C3' were a glossy and freshly-painted white.

Maz Kanata, the building's eccentric owner, periodically made repairs and changes when she felt compelled to. A few months ago, one of the changes had been freshly painted door letters, but if there was much else accomplished, Ben certainly hadn't seen it.

Using his key, he unlocked the door and pushed his way in.

The late afternoon sunlight was on the wrong side of the building, so his apartment was dark. He didn't bother turning on a light as he preferred the darkness over the garish brightness of 1600 lumens.

Even in the dim light though, he could make out a square of white paper on his wooden floor. He left it there, stepping on it as he made his way over to his bedroom.

Arguing with Snoke and working furiously on his piece at the studios had left him cranky and sweaty, a common enough occurrence that Ben had a routine of showering and changing so that he could get some sort of relaxation in the evenings.

By the time he got out, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends, he was feeling much better.

As he passed the front door on his way to the kitchen, he hesitated briefly before picking up the white square of paper with the faint footprint on it.

He considered not looking at it.

He always considered simply throwing it away without paying it any attention, but he always read it anyway.

He always told himself it didn't matter, but since he always looked, maybe it did.

He shrugged the feeling off and flipped the paper open.

The messages were always on the same heavy stationery, but the design on each paper was always different. Today it was a butterfly motif.

His eyes skimmed over the short contents, and his lip curled reflexively in a sneer.

Ridiculous.

In one swift move, he crumpled the paper in his hand till it was a colorful ball, one untouched butterfly on the paper's edge mocking him. He tossed it on the countertop and set about making himself something for dinner.

Pasta seemed a good choice. The carbs gave him energy. Despite the fact that he spent a lot of his days sitting down on the piano bench, Ben was a font of pent-up energy.

When he wasn't at the piano aggressively challenging himself, he was at the gym working off his frustrations, and so he seemed to need more carbs and calories than the average man of his size.

While he waited for the water to boil, he pondered on the problem of his final movement.

Snoke had only agreed to let him perform an original composition if it was as good as any of the other classical pieces he would be playing, but so far Snoke was still withholding his approval.

Ben  _needed_  to play it, though. When he'd left his family's musical company, Pièce de Résistance, he'd promised himself that he would not come crawling back. He would show his uncle, his mother, his father—and everyone—that he could succeed on his own. When he joined First Order's ranks, he'd even changed his performance name to Kylo Ren so that he wouldn't immediately be connected with the prestigious Skywalker/Solo family.

Playing his original sonata at Coruscant Hall for a sold-out crowd, to an acclaimed critical reception, was essential to his plans.

He just had to figure out how to improve that final, pivotal movement to Snoke's demanding standards.

He needed it to be fantastic. Something that would put his name—or Kylo's name— on everybody's lips. Something that would make him famous and give him the power and influence he needed to choose the path he wanted.

But he was running out of time. With the concert only weeks away, Snoke's deadline for final approval of his program was looming over him.

He meditated on his piece once again, mentally examining its musical qualities as he stood at the counter and chewed his way through his pasta.

When he finished, he swept all the dirty dishes into the sink and cleared off the countertops. He didn't hesitate this time at the crumpled sheet of paper with the lone butterfly that winked at him, he just scooped it up and tossed it into a white cookie jar without even looking at it again.

Then, as the daylight faded completely, he sat at the piano, Snoke's advice swirling through his head, and attacked the problem with new fervor.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite playing for several hours before bed, he still couldn't sleep. The unrest that burned in his breast caused a constant tossing and turning.

He gave up trying sometime after midnight and got up for a drink.

Not alcohol, never alcohol—it dulled his senses and slowed his fingers.

No, Ben poured himself a gingery pepper concoction that was meant to boost his immune system so that, hopefully, he didn't get sick before his big performance.

He downed a full glass, wincing as the ginger burned his throat on the way down.

As he set the empty glass on the countertop, he stared at the cookie jar that sat there. Usually he ignored it. It hadn't held cookies in years, ever since Ben had given up sugar, but it wasn't empty.

Abruptly, he reached for it, the heavy porcelain scraping as it slid across his counter.

After removing the lid, he tipped it over.

Several pieces of paper came tumbling out. Some, like the butterfly one from earlier, were crumpled into little balls. Others were folded neatly in half with a single fold. All of them were on that same kind of fancy stationery he'd noted before, the kind a grandmother would buy to send correspondence to her friends. Or so he imagined, as he didn't have a grandmother to compare to.

The handwriting, however, made him think the writer was much younger. The letters were bubbly and round, with imperfect circles dotting each of the i's.

Carelessly, he unfolded (and uncrumpled) them all, smoothing them out and putting them in order.

Since the date was conveniently at the top of each one, it wasn't hard for him to see that the oldest note was about three months old.

For three months, he'd been receiving notes in his door and ignoring them.

He had no clue who was sending them, but assumed they must live close by, probably one of the neighbors on either side of him. Definitely on the same floor.

But since he didn't know any of his neighbors—in fact he studiously avoided them all—they could be from anyone.

The first one had fallen from his door frame one day when he'd arrived home. He figured it for junkmail or a sales pitch for a local business.

He almost didn't bother reading it.

'Dear Neighbor,' it began, 'I just want to tell you that your music is lovely. Would you consider a humble request? I'd love it if you could play Fur Elise by Beethoven.'

He didn't save that one. That one had actually been ripped up in a fury and burned up in the fire of his disdain.

Every two-bit hack wanted to play Für Elise. Every 10-year-old girl with a year of piano lessons was obsessed with it. Every middle-aged mother who's 'not old, just classy' had it for a ringtone.

Far be it from him to criticize Beethoven, but he had no patience for tasteless peasants who only liked something because everyone else did.

He never even entertained the idea of playing it for the mysterious neighbor and moved on without giving them a second thought.

It wasn't long before he received a new note, carefully penned.

'Dear Neighbor, would you perhaps consider playing Moonlight Sonata instead? I do think it's equally as lovely as Fur Elise.'

Beethoven again. And though Ben was quite fond of the fiery third movement, no doubt the neighbor was completely unaware more than one movement even existed and was referring to the melancholic first movement.

Ben had been in a rage, briefly considering knocking on every door until he'd found the author who was pestering him with inane requests.

Instead, he'd crumpled the paper and shoved it in the nearest empty container just to get it out of his sight.

The messages came regularly after that. At first they were just requests.

Canon in D. (One of the most boring songs anyone could ever play, and not typically requested of a pianist unless it was for a  _wedding_ , and did he  _sound_  like he was a wedding performer?)

Pathetique. (Beethoven  _again_ , and another sonata with more than one movement, as if the writer of the message was entirely unaware of what a sonata was.)

Clair de Lune. (At least this was referring to a specific movement, but he refused to give them credit for that.)

But then they started including observations.

'Dear Neighbor,' one of them read, 'whatever you played last night left me speechless. It was so vivacious, full of such energy and excitement. It reminded me of a colt just realizing that it can run, racing the wind. Thank you so much for the lovely experience.'

As it always did, it ended with a request.

But Ben hadn't crumpled that one. He'd thought of the piece he'd been working on the night before, and he'd almost smiled thinking of a colt just learning its legs. Then he'd stuck it in the jar with the others.

Sometimes the notes came while he practiced, when he was so caught up in his music that he never heard a sound from the door.

One time there had been two slips of white paper waiting for him.

The first one had said, 'I think that is my favorite one so far. It was like a thunderstorm, wild and free and beautiful and dangerous and overwhelming.'

The second one had been a request for Billy Joel's 'Piano Man' and a quick postscript that said, 'I forgot to ask this.' The irritation from that second one had completely supplanted the vaguely positive vibes he'd gotten from the first one.

Once they'd asked for a Beatles song, and though he liked the song, he'd simply rolled his eyes and put the note with the others. It was a bit of a waste to ask a concert pianist to play 'Yesterday,' not that the neighbor knew he was a concert pianist. He didn't exactly have it advertised on his door.

Anyway, he never played the requests. Not a single one.

It was clear from their notes and from their taste in music that they were a romantic. Every piece they liked was sappy and filled with gentle emotions of varying degrees. The choices were so unlike Ben that it physically pained him to think of playing so much sentimental drivel.

He found such music frustratingly slow and soft and … for lack of a better term, easy-to-digest. Often annoyingly trite, actually.

He liked music that was strong and layered, filled with intensity and challenge.

Every piece he perfected was a battle. He fought with himself, he fought with the piano, he fought with the incorporeal ghost of the master who wrote it, until he could claim victory.

It was why he preferred the heavy and ominous gravitas of Palpatine's so-called Red Phase. The sly wit, the deceptive grace of the French composer Grievous, known as 'Le Général.' Even the frustration and the helpless rage of the unpublished works of his grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, who had died before anyone recognized his genius.

Ben Solo recognized that music was a language, and he only spoke it one way.

And that was the problem.

It was the reason why his Uncle Luke refused to teach him further. It was why Snoke wouldn't allow his sonata in the program.

Sighing, he looked out over the requests that were spread out before him. What was it about these compositions that appealed to so many people?

He tried to visualize them as word pictures, the way his unnamed neighbor did.

He knew each of the pieces, of course, as he'd learned them all during his musical education. (Even Piano Man, because how could you not?)

So he closed his eyes and played them over in his mind, trying to visualize them as pictures—trying to feel what others felt when they were listening.

This one was bunnies hopping in a field of dandelions.

This one was fluffy clouds in a clear, blue sky.

This one was a big pile of puppies. No, babies. No, puppies  _and_  babies.

Ben's eyes popped open. He was terrible at this. He couldn't seem to help the sneer that came to his face. The things that other people thought were moving and beautiful were not necessarily things that he appreciated.

He decided to try to approach it another way.

What did he think was beautiful and moving? What was the image of that feeling? What would  _that_  music sound like?

He shifted through the slips of the paper, pulling out a couple of them.

The one about the colt that had put a brief smile on his face.

The one about the thunderstorm.

One that compared the piece to a feeling of regret and sorrow.

And here was one that compared another piece to 'the first rays of morning sun coming up over the mountains and landing on a dewy, grassy plain.'

On second thought, he put that one aside.

Closing his eyes, he tried again. He pictured a colt, young and strong, running in a thunderstorm. The air was thick with electricity and danger, but it was exciting and it was freeing. The colt rejoiced in his speed, feeling pangs of sorrow and regret as he left everything miles behind, but reveling in the feeling of being alive that crackled under his hooves as the lightning crackled in the sky.

The picture lingered in his mind. Something stirred inside of him and he tried to reach out towards it, wondering if it was the elusive thing missing from his compositions.

Then he opened his eyes…and the feeling was gone.

The frustration rose up fast and sharp, but he ruthlessly tamped it back down.

It had almost worked. He just needed to find a way to tap into that something inside of him that was real and emotional and powerful.

Slowly, he put all the slips of paper back into the jar. It was probably important to clear his mind of someone else's words and thoughts so he could concentrate on his own.

Since sitting at the piano seemed like a good idea, he wandered over to the concert grand piano that took up the entire center of his living room.

He left the lights off. There was enough of a glow from the moonlight to keep him from falling over, and he didn't need lights to play.

The dark night was comforting to him. The coolness of it was inviting. It didn't judge and it hid a multitude of flaws. In the darkness, he felt like he could exist as he was, without the shame and the struggle of being Ben Solo or Kylo Ren.

There was a twinge of pain in his heart at the thought, as sometimes happened during these late night sessions. This time, unlike the other times, he didn't repress it. He let it wash over him.

Was this where his inspiration would come from?

He usually didn't allow himself to miss his family. He didn't need their attitudes and their judgment and their lack of faith in him. He didn't need their patronizing words and their mocking jokes, or their disappointed, tearful faces.

But sometimes he missed having a family. He never had any brothers or sisters, nor even any cousins. Just his parents and his uncle, and none of them were in his life anymore.

Snoke wasn't remotely family-like. And Hux and Phasma—well, sometimes he wasn't even sure if they were actually friends or just people who were in the habit of spending time in the same location a couple of times a week.

There were very few people in his life at all.

He sighed to himself.

It wasn't like he wanted puppies and babies. Certainly not a whole pile of them anyway, though he might not be averse to one or the other.

He just wanted someone to care about him. Someone who saw him with all of his flaws and still respected him, still wanted him in their lives. Someone who could see him, know him, trust him, love him…

An image came into his mind suddenly.

A bright night, like tonight.

A warm bed, piled high with covers.

And moonlight. Moonlight that filtered softly through the window to land on the cheek of a woman.

In his mind's eye, the woman's hand rested familiarly on his chest while she quietly slumbered.

The words 'I would give you the galaxy' echoed through him.

The image was so vivid, the words so clear, the feeling so strong—that he was shocked into playing.

His fingers were moving before he'd even thought about it.

It was the themes from his movement—the broken final one—but it was different. It was deep and layered, moving and delicate. It was full of longing and fear. It was this sharpness in his gut, in his chest, this feeling like there was a huge piece of his life that he hadn't even begun living yet…and terror that he would never find it.

Perhaps it was the witching hour—the downfall of many mortals before him—but he played like a man possessed. He felt ripped open, vulnerable, and for the first time in his life, he let himself stay open, like a doorway, trying to let the creative frenzy flow through him.

It was the most emotional thing he'd ever written.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever written.

Breathing hard, he brought the music to a stop and then frantically scrambled to turn on the piano lamp. With trembling hands, he hastily scribbled out everything he'd just done.

The specific dynamic details could wait until morning. But he couldn't afford to lose the little delicate trills, the dramatic driving marches up and down the keys, the huge, overwhelming,  _sweeping_  scope of it. Because if he couldn't get it down on paper right then, he wasn't sure he could recreate it in the glaring light of day.

When he finally finished, exhausted, he stared at all the papers scattered all over the piano. He couldn't believe what had just happened.

As he looked at their fluttering edges and at his ink-stained fingers, he marveled at the new feeling of pride and wonder that rose within him.

'Save this feeling,' he told himself, even as he stumbled off to bed. 'Save it for the next one.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone, for giving this story a chance! I know it's outside of my usual writing, in that it's not for the Dramione fandom or part of a Harry Potter fandom competition or fest. But you'll find that you can still recognize my usual brand of fluff and angst. I really appreciate your thoughts and reviews, and am so glad you are enjoying this story so far.
> 
> S&R: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW), meaning all reviews are welcome, including constructive criticism, should you feel like leaving some


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up in the morning feeling disoriented.

The sunlight and the room seemed the same as always, making him wonder if the frantic composing of the night before had simply been a dream.

Throwing back the covers, he raced out into the living room, ridiculously reassured to see that it looked like a tornado had passed through. The piano, the bench, and the floor was covered with sheets of staff paper, and he'd forgotten to turn the light off.

He ran a hand through his hair and then down his face.

He was so tired.

He'd reached a breakthrough, but he was unnerved at the toll the emotional outburst had taken on him.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

It just wasn't like him. He wasn't the type to yearn for things like love and family and moonlight. He was strong and independent, and, he had it on good authority, a right cold bastard.

He didn't know where all those feelings had come from. He didn't know how long they'd been growing there. . .how long he'd been ignoring them.

He didn't know if letting them out meant he wouldn't be able to put them back.

He couldn't unsee the vision of himself contentedly watching the woman he loved sleeping in their bed.

Her face was a blur, because she wasn't a person. She was just…a hope. A possibility.

It made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want that kind of complication in his life. He didn't need those kinds of human connections.

Except that there was a part of him that apparently did.

He shook his head and went to make some coffee. He ought to look at what he'd written, but there was a mounting fear that it wouldn't be as good as he remembered.

He needed it to be brilliant.

If it wasn't, he'd be stuck again, unable to meet Snoke's requirements.

But more than that…if it wasn't brilliant…did it mean that even when he pulled out emotions from the depth of his cold, black heart…that it would never be good enough?

He shuddered.

The fear and uncertainty made him so angry. He'd always responded with anger. It was what he knew best. When he felt most broken was when he was most likely to break something.

But there was no one to be mad at, and he didn't have time for the tantrum. So he reached for the iron-clad discipline that was the only thing he'd learned from his uncle, and he poured his morning caffeine.

The scalding hot coffee burned his mouth, but he didn't care. The sharp burst of pain only helped him to ground himself in reality.

When his nerves were sufficiently steeled, he went back into the living room to gather together the papers. Obviously it would need some refining, either way. He needed to put a lot of work into it if he was going to get it ready in just a couple of weeks. He told himself not to expect too much from the initial draft.

Then he stopped short.

There was a note under the door.

White, square, heavy stationery.

He snatched it up, absurdly anxious to see what it said.

It didn't even start with 'Dear Neighbor' this time. It just began.

'That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. It made me cry. I'm surprised you didn't hear me bawling like a baby. I know you don't usually play my requests, but could you consider playing it again sometime?'

The pride and triumph streaked through him, and he was reminded again of that colt racing the storm. He'd written something. And it had made someone feel.

He didn't need the validation of his sappy neighbor with the poor musical taste…but having it tasted better than his coffee.

Strangely energized, his exhaustion abruptly forgotten, he gathered up all of the papers, thankful that he'd remembered to label them numerically.

It was good. It wasn't brilliant yet. But it would be.

He could see where he needed to rearrange some of the themes to build the proper tension. He'd need to pull back on some of the embellishments toward the beginning, add the elaborate runs in more sparingly. But the epic feel of it was there.

The notes on the paper brought the sound of it back into his head. It resonated inside of him, filling him up in a way that made him marvel he had ever been so empty.

It was magic. Music was magic.

Ben Solo had always known that, but he thought that perhaps for the first time, he truly believed it.

He reached over to the piano keys to tinker with a few sections when he remembered something.

If he practiced his movement, his neighbor would think he was playing it for them, since they made it a point to request it.

He didn't feel as adamant about rejecting this request as he had the others, for obvious reasons. But it still made him hesitate with his fingers above the keyboard.

Were they listening right now? Could he work on polishing all those tiny flaws with an audience?

He changed his mind and closed the keyboard, remembering to turn off his piano lamp this time.

He would go to the studio and work on it there. They had recording facilities that would give him a chance to listen to it and review it more objectively.

He tried to tell himself that it was just for practical reasons he was moving his work to the studio today, but he couldn't shake the vague sense of guilt as he snuck past the doors of his neighbors toward the elevator.

* * *

Snoke gave his grudging acceptance of the final movement.

Ben felt distinctly like he was being mocked, but pleasing his mentor was so rare that he considered it fortunate that he managed something that met his standards. Once it was polished, he was sure Snoke would not regret letting him play the original work.

They were still fighting about making it the last piece he performed, but Ben was adamant that it needed to be the finale.

Snoke, in return, insisted that he do all of his practicing at the studio where he could micromanage every aspect of his performance.

Normally Ben hated that, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if he could get the program that he wanted.

It also solved one little problem for him. If all of his practicing was in the studio, his nosy neighbor wouldn't be getting their latest request, either.

He wanted to feel pleased, but the guilt still plagued him at odd times of the day.

It was ridiculous because he shouldn't care at all if a stranger who constantly invaded his privacy with their messages was getting their feelings hurt just because he couldn't be nagged into playing music for them.

But since he was spending several hours a day in the studio, he wasn't receiving any more notes. He was appalled to discover he kind of missed them.

It was the first thing he checked for when he arrived home, even though he knew it was silly.

One day, though, that white square of paper was waiting for him.

He pounced on it immediately, dropping his messenger bag on the floor in his haste to see what it said.

'Dear Neighbor, I haven't heard you playing lately. BB8 (that's my dog) and I have missed the sound of it. We like to sit on the sofa and listen in the evenings. I eat ice cream, and he chews on his antler bone. Sometimes he howls a tiny little bit. I think he's singing. I'm sorry if my requests seem demanding, I just really like to listen to your music, and you seem to enjoy it so much. Anyway, I was getting kind of worried. I hope you are okay. I thought about knocking and checking, but figured you didn't want to hear any more from me than you already did. But if you aren't okay, and need something, like chicken soup, or to borrow a cup of sugar, please let me know.'

It was signed with a smiley face. Next to it was another smiley face, smaller, with pointy ears, and a tongue hanging out. An arrow pointed at it, and it said, 'BB8.'

There was a real smile on his face this time, the first time one of the notes had done that.

He didn't crumple the note, and he didn't put it in the jar. He left it out on the counter.

That evening, when he sat to play at the piano he'd ignored for a couple of weeks, he told himself that since they hadn't requested anything, he wasn't playing for them.

He was just…relaxing. Relaxing by playing his favorites for fun, instead of practicing his performance pieces.

But he thought about the mystery neighbor, sitting in an unspecified apartment, eating ice cream and playing with their dog.

And the idea of it made him smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy update day! And I know mostly people just say "antler," but my dogs don't KNOW what an antler is, so I tell them it's a bone. An antler bone. #SorryNotSorry


	4. Chapter 4

Maz Canata was an eccentric old biddy. She'd been the owner of Ben's apartment building for as long as he'd been living there and probably decades before.

She was sometimes nosy and sometimes bossy, but was always available to her tenants for help addressing an issue. She brooked no nonsense and had no problem throwing trouble-makers out on their ears. Sometimes he thought she took a sick joy in doing it, too.

Maz was the reason Ben still lived in a mediocre apartment building with a rickety elevator that always sounded like it was going to fail and plummet him to his doom.

She never treated him like a celebrity, though she obviously knew who he was. She never treated him like a failure. She never made demands of him, she never criticized his lifestyle.

Most importantly, she never forwarded any complaints about the way he played music really loud and sometimes even really late at night. He wasn't deluded enough to believe that no one ever complained. As his neighbor's notes proved, the walls could be paper thin, and who wanted furious Rachmaninoff waking them up at three o'clock in the morning?

But Maz never chastised him, never suggested he play quieter or keep to business hours.

So rather than moving someplace nicer, which he could easily afford, he stayed in Maz's building. Instead, he remodeled his own apartment, at his own expense. It was the only apartment with real wood floors and granite countertops. The walls had fresh paint and the cabinets in the kitchen were all new.

Only the front door stayed the same, so no one would know at a glance that Apt C3 was nicer than the others.

Maz never said anything about the upgrades, but she never raised his rent. She never discounted it, either, but Ben didn't blame her. He paid for the comfort of a familiar and acceptable living situation and was happy to do it.

Since Maz didn't hold with the newfangled technology, Ben always had to go to her office to pay his rent. When he did, he often stopped in and spoke amiably with her for several minutes.

Usually it was only when she caught him trying to sneak by and just stick the envelope through the slot that she wouldn't let him go until he'd told her everything new in his life.

Sometimes, like this time, he let himself be caught.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she could see right through him and that he was making a fool of himself.

He'd asked a question that he thought was perfectly casual.

"It feels like the building's been a bit full lately, are all the apartments filled now?"

Her unblinking stare through her overly thick glasses told him that she thought his question anything but casual.

"Yes," she said slowly, sitting behind her desk, "a full house." Then she beamed up at him. "And a full pocketbook for me!"

He couldn't decide what to say next, as she seemed curiously reluctant to come forth with any further information. Usually she was happy to drop all the latest gossip on him, even when he obviously didn't want it.

"Did we start accepting pets recently?" he asked, inwardly congratulating himself on a better angle.

She stared at him again, and then she pushed aside a stack of paperwork that was in front of her. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms and regarded him. "'We' have always accepted pets, Solo." She sniffed. "I just have very high standards! Only the very best behaved!"

Leaning forward, she added, as if to a co-conspirator, "And the cutest. I make them do tricks for me before I approve their application!"

The idea of Maz rigorously making a tiny dog go through his paces while an anxious owner looked on, surprised Ben into laughing.

"Ah, that's good to hear. You haven't laughed enough lately, Solo." She wagged her finger at him with a maternal fondness in her voice that warmed him a tiny bit.

"I laugh," he protested.

"Not enough!" she insisted. "I know it's not enough because when you laugh, your face looks like it's going to crack."

That should have insulted him, but because she was probably right, the humor of it made him smile again.

Maz reached over to pat his cheek. "There's a good boy! You really are in a good mood today."

He wondered suddenly if all these conversations was just her making him go through his paces.

"I'm not a dog, Maz," he said with slight irritation.

"Ah, but you have those puppy dog eyes."

He had no idea what to say to that. So he steered the conversation back to where he wanted it.

"I think there's probably a dog on my floor now," he said.

Her gaze suddenly sharpened. "Has the dog been troubling you? I was assured BB8 was very well-trained. He could shake, roll over, speak on command. He performed very well. But if he is troubling you, I will speak with the owner immediately!"

"Oh, no, no," he quickly assured her. He didn't want to get poor BB8 in trouble. "The dog is fine. I barely even know he's there."

"Hmm," was Maz's only contribution.

"But I mean, I thought maybe I saw him in the hallway once." Ben pushed through. "I was just wondering. If he was lost, like if he got out…how would I—where should I...return him?"

The excuse sounded lame, of course, and he tried not to wince at it.

Maz stared at him curiously once more.

He had to focus on not shuffling under her gaze. The ticking of the old clock on the wall kept the room from being silent, but not from being uncomfortable.

She must have finally decided something, because she answered him. "C5." She paused. "But I'm sure he knows his way home."

"Oh, right. Yes, I'm sure he's probably a very smart dog," Ben acknowledged.

When Maz didn't say anything more, Ben made a move to leave, but as he reached the door, something stopped him. He turned and decided to push for just one more question.

"Maz, um, BB8's owner. Do you happen to know—I mean, if I returned him, who should I…ask for?" Mentally he kicked himself.

But Maz didn't give him any trouble over this one. "Rey." 

For a brief second, Ben felt disoriented. He'd been so sure the neighbor must be—was probably—well, it was silly for him to care. It shouldn't matter if it was a guy.

The disappointment that seemed to be creeping up inside of him made absolutely no sense, and he frowned at himself. 

But Maz was still speaking. "Her name is Rey, and she lives in C5 and has a dog named BB8." With a shrewd look in her narrow eyes, she asked, "Is that what you wanted, Solo?"

He gaped at her, trying to process what she had just said along with the uncomfortable feeling that she knew all long he was just trying to get information.

"Ah, okay, thanks," he heard himself saying, suddenly eager to get out of the building, feeling partly ridiculous and partly triumphant.

"She's a nice girl! Don't be giving her no trouble, Solo!" Maz called out to him as he left.

He decided that the embarrassment definitely outweighed the triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving this story a try! This is the shortest of all the chapters, I know, but we get to see Rey in the next chapter, so stick around!


	5. Chapter 5

Rey rode up the rickety elevator to the third floor. She liked the way it rumbled and creaked, complaining the whole way. Sometimes she liked to pretend it was a rocket getting ready to launch her into space. It always sounded like it was the start of a bigger adventure than simply a ride up to her apartment.

Today, though, she was in no mood to appreciate the clanking and creaking of impending adventure.

Work had been a misery. The shop had taken on several projects with urgent deadlines—all of them fancy luxury cars with cranky, demanding owners—and she'd been pulling a lot of overtime several days in a row just to get them finished. Today she'd left before she was truly finished, because she was too tired to continue, and working on a car when you're tired is a good way to lose a finger.

Her friends had wanted her to go out with them, but she just wanted to have some ice cream, curl up with BB8, and unwind after the hard day.

The elevator came to a shuddering stop and she plodded to the end of the hall. Her muscles were stiff and sore, and they ached at the movement of lifting her key to the lock. She briefly contemplated adding a nice, restful bath to her schedule.

Honestly, though, she'd probably fall asleep and drown, so she decided on a steaming hot shower instead.

BB8 greeted her at the door, his long tail wagging furiously. Despite looking like a purebred corgi, the orange and white puppy was a rescue with a mixed background and so, had fortunately escaped having his tail docked. His short legs worked furiously to keep up with Rey as she dropped her bag and headed straight for the bathroom to wash off the day's sludge.

She tried not to cuddle with her dog when she had streaks of grease all over, but that didn't stop BB8 from trying to get her attention.

He laid flat on his tummy outside the bathroom, waiting mournfully for her to finish her shower.

When she finally came out, pink-cheeked and smiling again, she reached down and gave him the belly rubs he'd been patiently waiting for. Then he trotted after her into the kitchen.

Since Rey had eaten pizza at the shop, she went straight to the freezer for her favorite dessert, ice cream.

Rey loved ice cream. She didn't care what flavor it was, she loved them all. Growing up poor in a desert climate, she'd always envied kids who could get ice cream whenever they wanted.

Now that she was out on her own with her own modest income, and even though Coruscant never got as hot as Jakku, she indulged regularly. Fortunately, she was able to burn off all the calories at work.

She filled her bowl with Rocky Railroad Tracks, and a smaller bowl with kibble for BB8, and then plopped tiredly onto her couch.

Working late meant that she'd probably missed her neighbor's practice session.

He hadn't been playing regularly anyway. It used to be every day and every night, but lately it had only been every few days, and only in the evenings. It was pretty much just enough so that she knew he was still alive and didn't send him another silly message like the one she'd sent when she thought he was sick.

She cringed just remembering it. She'd even suggested helping him, and then had forgotten to write her apartment number on it.

He must think she was a weird stalker.

She told herself for the nth time that she was going to stop writing any more notes.

At first, it had been just an expression of her excitement. When she'd moved in 4 months ago, she'd been shocked, enthralled,  _overjoyed_  at the angelic music that seemed to echo in the walls around her. Leaving the note had been just a whim, hoping he might play a song that she actually recognized.

She figured since Fur Elise was so well known, that surely an accomplished artist such as himself would be familiar with it.

When the neighbor didn't play her request, she didn't think much of it. Maybe he didn't know it after all.

Then she'd asked him to play her favorite song, Moonlight Sonata. A small part of it played on repeat in a jewelry box that was one of the last possessions she had from her parents. It was a cheap thing that you had to wind up, and it had a horribly tinny sound. But she'd always loved listening to it, remembering how her mother would wind it up for her over and over again. Though the song always sounded so sad, it actually made Rey very happy to hear it and to preserve what few memories she still had.

When the neighbor ignored that request too, she thought maybe he just didn't like it.

It became rather like a game—trying to guess what songs he knew, what songs he liked, what he might finally end up playing...if she could only guess right.

Though she didn't know much about classical music, sometimes she got to choose the radio station in the garage at work, and the deejays would say the names and the composers of the songs.

Sometimes she heard songs that she recognized from her neighbor's practice sessions. She always frantically wrote them down, trying to draw a connection between the songs that he played. He seemed to like songs with a lot of fury and passion, and ones that were not very popular, since she rarely heard them on the station she listened to.

Her own preference was less obvious. She just liked what she liked, she didn't know how to describe it. But when one of those came on the radio, she wrote them down, too, so that she could add it to her request list. They were always by composers with names that were difficult to spell, so she had to look them up before writing them onto the pretty stationery that Maz had given her when she'd moved in.

She suspected Maz felt bad about the fact that Rey's parents were both gone, and that she had no family to speak of. It was a strange gift, no doubt left over from some unwanted Christmas presents, but Rey appreciated the thought all the same.

And it made the notes that she left for the man in C3 look so much nicer.

She knew that the obsessive pianist was a man, even though she'd never encountered him, because she'd passed the mailman one day when he was putting the mail in the building's boxes.

There were names written for each apartment, and when she'd returned from walking BB8 that afternoon, she'd sidled over just close enough so that she could finally put a name to the music.

'Ben Solo,' it had said in block letters on the little white card.

It was fitting because she couldn't imagine him playing with a band or an orchestra. His music was captivating entirely by itself—solo.

Occasionally when he played, she talked to the air, using his name out loud.

"Oh, that one was really good, Ben," she'd say.

Or, "I liked it the other way better, Bennie-boy."

Of course, she never put that into any of her notes, because that would be too weird. It was weird enough that she said his name where only BB8 could hear it, she certainly wasn't going to reveal to him that not only did she eavesdrop on him every night, she'd also spied on his mail.

She tried not to think that it was also probably very weird that she even sent the notes in the first place.

When the music abruptly stopped one day, she'd felt suddenly guilty about all of those nagging messages.

It had happened right after she told him that the song he'd played in the middle of the night had made her cry.

The song had woken her up out of sleep, gently calling to her, and maybe it was the moonlight, but she'd felt this force connecting them, as if they were the only two people in the world, and he was playing just for her.

When she realized there were tears streaming down her face, she never considered not telling him.

So she'd left him a note before the sun had even come up…and then the music had stopped.

Horrified, she wondered if she'd offended him. Or if maybe he felt bad for making her cry.

So she agonized for several days about what to do. Finally, she decided to send him another note, and it ended up being the most personal note she'd ever sent.

Instantly, she regretted sticking it under his door and considered calling up her best friend Finn to see if he'd help her break in and get it back before Ben Solo in apartment C3 came home.

In the end, though, he hadn't responded to that note, either. (How could he, when she'd forgotten to write her apartment number, anyway?)

The music had started up again soon after that, though not nearly as often.

Rey sighed over her empty bowl. No music tonight.

After cleaning up the few dishes, she got BB8 ready for his bedtime walk.

As they were heading out the door, she stopped short, seeing something she must have missed upon coming home.

It was a white envelope, a standard business size, and it looked like it had been slipped under her door. When she'd opened the door, it had swept it against the wall, and so she hadn't seen it.

She squeaked, her heartbeat suddenly pounding furiously in her ears.

Had Ben finally written her back? How did he know where she lived? What could he possibly have to say to her after all this time? And why didn't he ever play any of her requests?

She didn't spend very long freaking out, she was much too anxious to see what was inside the envelope.

To her surprise, there was no scathing letter, no neighborly introduction. It was just a single ticket.

Kylo Ren in Concert. Coruscant Hall.

The picture on the ticket showed a brooding young man—handsome but intense—and the sight of him gave her a slight jolt. There was something about his eyes, like they were going to stare a hole right through her.

It took her a second, but she tore her gaze away from Kylo Ren's face in order to look at the rest of the ticket.

There was a small picture with piano keys, so the performer was obviously a pianist. In the upper corner was the date and time—two weeks away—and a printed seat number.

Her breath caught, and she looked up to see BB8, his head tilted, clearly wondering why they weren't going on his walk yet.

The ticket must be from Ben Solo. He knew she liked piano music, he knew where she lived...but what did he mean by it?

Was…was it supposed to be a date? Was he going to  _be_  there, perhaps sitting in one of the seats next to her?

Was she ready for that?

Sure, she'd considered meeting him, had thought about what it'd be like to have an actual conversation with the mysterious man who made the beautiful music that tugged so much at her heart.

But like this?

A sudden thought occurred to her. "BB8, what if there is no concert?" she asked aloud, suddenly anxious. "What if it's just a joke? Some kind of elaborate setup?"

BB8 whined and pawed at the door, picking up his leash in his mouth and holding it hopefully.

As she looked at his optimistic little face and his wagging tail, she told herself that she was just being silly.

It was surely just a nice gesture. Ben Solo knew she liked classical piano, and maybe it was his way of saying he appreciated the messages. Maybe Kylo Ren played the type of songs she always requested, and since he wasn't going to play them for her, this was the next best thing.

Rey took a deep breath and then reached down to put BB8 in his harness.

Yes, that was it, the ticket was just something nice and neighborly—nothing for her to be too concerned about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! We've got both players on the board now! It's starting to get good...


	6. Chapter 6

When Rey's best friend, Rose, found out that Rey was planning on attending a concert at Coruscant Hall in a blouse and her one good pair of black slacks, she just about had kittens. Horrified, she'd insisted on going through every scrap of clothing in Rey's closet, only to finally determine that Rey had absolutely nothing appropriate to wear.

Rey had thought the scariest part would be telling her friend that she was going to a concert on an invitation from a stranger, but Rose actually found that exciting and romantic. No matter that Rey had told her that she was pretty sure her neighbor was just being nice and wasn't even planning on showing up, Rose was convinced that it was the beginning of a great love affair and therefore Rey had to dress appropriately.

Unfortunately, Rey didn't have many friends, and most of them were guys. Certainly none of them were from the rich set that regularly went to formal concerts.

In the end, Rose's older sister, Paige, had volunteered her old prom dress for the cause, and together they'd managed to get it to fit very credibly. Although Paige was quite a bit shorter, she had a penchant for very high heels, so Rey was able to manage fine with some flats.

Rose had desperately wanted to put Rey's hair into a classic updo, but since they were running out of time, the best she could do was three little buns running down the back of her head.

Rose assured her it was elegant. Rey thought she looked a bit like a dinosaur.

As Rey raced down the sidewalk of downtown Coruscant, she was grateful, though, both for the flat shoes and the hardy hairstyle.

No one had told her parking at the Hall was so ridiculously expensive, so she'd parked her old Jakku Junker a few streets down and was hoofing it to the theater so she wouldn't be late.

Since she was moving so fast, she didn't have time to lament the fact that she had no wrap or coat that would match the dress, and so she was bare-shouldered in the chilly air. No doubt she'd be less comfortable on the return trip, but she couldn't worry about that now.

As she approached the crowd of people gathered outside the huge glass windows of the theater lobby, she had a moment of trepidation.

What if the ticket clutched in her hand was no good? What if it was all just a prank after all? What if they all took one look at her and knew she didn't belong there?

Paige's prom dress was a bright, sunny yellow color. It had seemed formal and festive in Rose's living room, but looking around, Rey didn't see any other colors so bright. Everyone was wearing dark jewel tones—sapphire and emerald—and for some reason, an awful lot of red. Or, 'garnet,' she supposed.

Her yellow princess-style dress stood out like a laser beam.

The other women were also dripping in fancy jewels and wearing impeccable make-up. Rey only had a bit of eyeliner and mascara because Rose had insisted.

She ignored the curious stares, tried to look like she was perfectly normal, and approached the ticket master with a shaking hand.

To her profound relief, he simply scanned the ticket and directed her to the lower levels.

Once inside, she was so giddy at the idea of being at such a fancy concert to listen to someone who was being billed as 'one of the upcoming premier musicians of Coruscant,' that she stopped noticing the curious stares and the frowns.

She just wanted to find her seat.

Someone handed her a program, and she was struck again by how intense Kylo Ren's eyes were. She couldn't tell if he was incredibly angry or incredibly sad. Perhaps his eyes changed when he played.

She arrived at the row where her seats were, and started to squeeze her way past the other patrons who were already seated. They let her pass with slight frowns, and she repeated her excuses and apologies until she arrived to where her chair number was supposed to be.

But it wasn't there.

She double-checked her ticket again. D17.

The chairs skipped right over her number!

An awful feeling of frustration swept over her. She knew it had just been a trick. She felt so incredibly stupid standing there, staring at the space where her chair was supposed to be, and she wondered how fast she could get out of the theater and back into her car, and back into her regular clothes and her regular life. And she was never going to send her damn neighbor any messages again!

"Excuse me, miss, that's my seat."

She looked up at the person speaking to her, appalled to find there was the slightest sheen of tears obstructing her view. If she was going to cry, she needed to wait till she got outside, or she'd have mascara running all down her face.

"I'm sorry, I had been trying to find my seat and it—it doesn't seem to be here." She gestured helplessly at the chairs. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'll just be going."

The woman frowned and held out her hand.

Rey reluctantly showed her the ticket.

The woman glanced at it for the briefest second and then handed it back to her with a roll of her eyes. "You're odd," she said.

"Excuse me?" Rey was shocked at the casual way the woman had just insulted her. Just because she looked a little bit different and was clearly out of her element was no reason to be rude to a stranger.

"I'm even," the woman explained. When it was clear that Rey still wasn't understanding, she grabbed her own ticket and pointed at the seat number. "D16, even." Then she pointed at Rey's ticket. "D17, odd. You're on the wrong side of the theater, your seat is over there."

She pointed down the row on the other side of the next aisle.

Comprehension dawned on Rey, and a smile lit up her face. "Oh, thank you! Oh, I'm so sorry! Of course!"

The woman's irritation seemed mildly eased by Rey's profuse thanks, and Rey quickly made her way back out towards the aisle, excusing herself past all the same people she'd inconvenienced before.

When she got to the aisle she realized she really should have just continued straight through to the other side, rather than backtracking. The only way she could see to get to the other side was to go all the way back up the aisle and through the hallways to the other aisle.

The ushers were encouraging everyone to take their seats, so she hurried back up the aisle.

The theater doors were closed as she tried to head down the correct side of the theater.

An usher frowned at her, but she just held up her ticket as she reached for the door handles. "I'm so sorry! I'm just going to take my seat! I was on the wrong side! I'm an odd! I'll be quick, I promise!"

She breezed past him, and was relieved that he didn't stop her or follow her as she quickly made her way down towards the front.

The lights were starting to go down, but she had enough light to find Row D, and from this end, reaching D17 didn't require squeezing past so many people.

She hurried past everyone, her heart racing, anxious to be in her seat when the program started. She felt a thrill when she found the seat that matched her ticket and plopped down into it gracelessly, accidentally kicking the seat in front of her.

The woman, a very tall blonde with short cut hair, leaned over to her companion, a skinny red-headed man, and said, rather loudly, "They let such riff-raff in nowadays. No class, no dignity."

The man agreed with her wordlessly.

Rey flushed at the pointed comment, but didn't feel like starting any fights. She half wished she hadn't come at all, as the entire experience had been nothing but trouble so far.

The panic of getting to her seat, though, had at least caused her to temporarily forget her worry about whether or not Ben Solo would be joining her. Frantically she looked around, wondering if she'd just squeezed past him and hadn't even noticed.

On either side of her was an elderly couple, and they both seemed occupied in their own conversations.

If Ben Solo was coming, he wasn't going to be sitting next to her.

Horrified, she wondered if maybe he hadn't known about the even and odd seats and was sitting on the other side of the theater. She started to look over to where she'd been, thinking she might be able to spot someone else who looked confused, but it was already too dim in the theater to make out those on the other side.

She looked closer at the people sitting by her, but none of them seemed like the kind of man who made the music that she listened to every night.

She wondered again why Ben Solo had invited her to this concert, but resolved to just enjoy it and worry about the 'why' later.

Then the curtains lifted.

And when Kylo Ren began to play, everything Rey had worried about completely slipped her mind.

She sat entranced, completely enthralled with the melodies coming from the piano—so familiar and yet wholly new and beautiful—and with the man playing them.


	7. Chapter 7

Ben tried not to think about the girl. The neighbor, Rey.

He assumed that she'd gotten the envelope with the ticket in it, but he had no idea what she thought of it, or even if she'd be able to attend.

He hadn't received any messages with music requests since that last strangely personal one.

It was true that he was spending almost all of his days at the studio, but he still made a little time to unwind at home and play something light.

In the evenings, of course, even though he told himself it wasn't because she'd said that was when she listened. It was just convenient for him because that was when he got home.

He also told himself he absolutely wasn't listening out for the pitter-patter of doggie feet going by.

And if one time he thought he happened to hear something, and if he also happened to run to the door to look out the peephole to see if he caught a glimpse of anything, he told himself it was only natural to be curious.

He worried that sending the ticket had been crossing a line. He hadn't included any kind of message of explanation, so it's possible she just thought it was junk mail and threw it away.

He'd spent several minutes staring at the ticket and the envelope, his pen hovering over the pristine white surface. But he couldn't think of any words, and so in the end he'd written absolutely none.

Maybe he should have at least written her name.

He paced the backstage area, the tails of his tuxedo whipping behind him every time he turned. He needed to be focusing on his performance, but concentration kept slipping from his grasp.

He didn't know why it seemed so important to know if she was here, but he finally decided that checking on the audience was the only way for him to resolve the matter so he could get get back to work.

It was heavily frowned upon to look out the curtain, but enough performers did it that the backstage crew rarely raised a fuss if you were particularly insistent.

In this case, the stage manager barely even flinched when Kylo Ren gave him a very direct order.

The curtain cracked just the tiniest bit so that he could peer out. The backstage area was in darkness, so the audience wouldn't know that someone was peeking through.

The first thing he did was glance at the aisle where he knew Rey would be sitting if she had decided to come. It was close enough to showtime that she ought to be there already. He'd given her a prime seat up towards the front, right behind Hux and Phasma, though he rather hoped they didn't talk to her at all.

He didn't know he would explain his—their—(not quite) friendship to them.

Neighbors, he reminded himself. They were just neighbors. Two people who shared a floor…and a wall.

But he needn't have worried as the seat was empty. He could clearly see the ever-present scowl on Hux's face and the pinched look on Phasma's, but no one else who could possibly be the girl with the dog and the pretty penmanship.

He took a deep breath, trying not to be disappointed. It was her loss. He'd just wanted to do something nice for her, he convinced himself.

He let his eye wander over the crowd, then, glad to see that the house was almost entirely filled. Snoke would be happy, at least, as long as he didn't screw up. His intense advertising campaign had clearly paid off.

His gaze suddenly snagged on a bright yellow dress. A girl with three funny buns on the back of her head seemed to be having a particularly enthusiastic conversation with some stiff-laced patrons. She kept gesturing with wide arms, while a snobbish woman just kept shaking her head.

He found the contradiction amusing. Everyone around her was old and stiff, the exact replica of every theater patron he'd ever witnessed in the front rows of his Uncle Luke's performances. And here she was….young and bright, like a ray of sunshine among all the dour faces.

When she turned, he saw that her expression was just as bright. She looked up at the stage, and he thought for a moment that she'd seen him, though that was surely impossible.

But her eyes seared him, even from that distance, and he fancied he felt warmth trickling through the darkness.

Quickly, he shut the curtain.

He'd done enough looking and had the answer he needed about the neighbor. She wasn't coming. The last thing he needed was another girl taking up space in his head.

Returning to his place backstage, he didn't resume his pacing. Instead, he closed his eyes, clearing it of everything except his music and the performance Snoke was paying him for.

Ruthlessly, he pushed everything aside—anxiety, nervousness, excitement—and he let his head fill with music while he kept his fingers limber from his earlier warm-ups.

By the time he found himself seated onstage, everything had distilled down to just his music, his art. Distantly, he could feel the audience and the way he carried them along with him on a rollercoaster of sound.

He was aware of their breathlessness, their anticipation, their excitement—and it energized him.

He was powerful, strong, dynamic, explosive.

He knew the audience was exactly where he wanted them. No one would be able to say after this that he wasn't truly a concert-level pianist. The triumph and the thrill built inside him, but he still kept it at arm's length, his discipline iron-clad.

He would show them all.

* * *

The final piece was his original work—his sonata.

Snoke hadn't wanted to end on an original composition, thinking to hide it somewhere in the middle in case it wasn't received well, but Ben had insisted.

It was the last thing he wanted them to remember. It was the one he wanted everyone talking about. It was the one he wanted the newspaper articles to write about.

He felt like he would live or die on this performance, and it was somehow untenable that he could choose any other piece to end on.

By the time he played it, the crowd had been primed, pumped up by his already intense performance. Their emotions vibrated in the air, bouncing through him and giving him an energy he'd never imagined as the melody soared out into the auditorium.

The final movement was delicate, yet intricate, full of the longing and yearning he'd felt that night he'd written it. In his mind he saw a life that was pregnant with possibility, optimism, hope and challenge. He opened himself up to it wide, ignoring the twinges of doubt and fear that creeped along the edges, the assertions that he was unloved and unloveable.

He wanted more, he would be more, he  _was_  more.

As he reached the finale, the last notes lingered in the air. Before they could even completely fade away, the applause from the audience was deafening.

It crashed around him, bringing him down from his high, and he looked at his hands for a second, surprised even for himself at what he'd just done.

The lights suddenly seemed too bright, and he felt exposed and raw, vulnerable in front of a thousand people. He resisted the irrational urge to cower in on himself.

This approval was what he'd wanted, though he found himself strangely less concerned about it now than he had been before the concert.

He scanned the crowd, his eyes being drawn against his will to the corner where Hux and Phasma sat applauding politely with bored looks on their faces.

He didn't even notice them, because standing right behind them, on her feet in that brilliant yellow dress that he could see even in the glow of the reflected spotlights… was her.

She had three buns on her head, a wide smile on her face, and mascara-streaked tear tracks running all down her cheeks.

Their eyes connected for an instant and he felt a dim explosion in the back of his mind.

But then all the lights were coming up, and he was taking his bows, and being hustled off-stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, you guys. I was helping my family with a project and actually wasn't paying attention at all to what day it was. And I forgot the update. And now it's like 46 hours past when I'd normally think about posting! So here it is. I can't believe no one reminded me at all! Don't worry, the last chapter will be posted as normal, assuming I don't forget again. There's only one more chapter, and then the Epilogue. Yes...they still haven't met yet, I know...that's for the last chapter, haha.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Ben was finished with the mandatory greetings that Snoke had arranged for him and accepting the accolades of the Very Important People, the girl in the yellow dress was gone.

It was probably silly of him to think she would have waited for him. They didn't have any plans, any arrangement—she possibly didn't even know that he was the same neighbor that had invited her.

He shook his head clear even as he shook another enthusiastic hand, and said to a faceless patron, "Thank you for coming."

The next one got, "Nice to meet you."

And of course, there was, "So glad you enjoyed the show."

As the parade of people went past him, and he pasted on a smile for them, he thought that it was probably for the best that Rey didn't stick around.

He wasn't good at real conversations and the best he would have done was probably the same things he was saying to everyone else.

Of course, he would have actually meant them if he'd said them to her.

He  _was_  glad she seemed to enjoy the show. He  _did_ feel thankful that she had come. And…he did think it would have been awfully nice to have finally met her.

It niggled at his mind for the rest of his evening, that missed opportunity.

It didn't seem to matter that he was being considered a raging success. Or that he was being introduced to wealthy and influential benefactors left and right. He kept looking for that yellow dress.

It irritated him—both the fact that he didn't get to say anything to the girl, to Rey, and the fact that he really  _wanted_  to.

He wanted to know her opinion of his performance. He wanted to hear her describe them in those word pictures that she used.

He particularly wanted—needed—to hear what she thought about his finished original work—if the image she got in her mind from that third movement was anything like the image he'd gotten in his.

He sighed in frustration, turning over in the bed he'd finally crawled into well after midnight. His body was exhausted after the hype and the energy of the performance, but his mind couldn't seem to rest.

She was taking up too much space in his head for a girl he hadn't even met yet. She'd been doing so even before he'd seen her, but now that he had…

She was beautiful. When he'd just thought she was a young guest, he'd thought so, too.

But when he'd seen her there in the seat he'd picked for her, the look on her face with the tear tracks running down it, and that big, beaming smile as she clapped…it undid him.

It flipped everything inside him, and for a second it was like the world had come to a screeching halt, and then started spinning again faster than ever before.

His heart beat faster in his chest, and he finally threw the covers back. He couldn't possibly sleep like this. There were far too many emotions roiling within him and he wasn't used to it.

There was relief and triumph, of course. The tiniest bit of anxiety, wondering what he was going to do next, now that he'd reached his concert performance goal. There was excitement, anticipation, and nervousness about this new chapter of his career.

But there was more. There was…something strong and real moving through him, the stirring of yearning every time he thought of her.

It was overwhelming and unfamiliar.

Ben found himself seated at his piano, his safest place, and it occurred to him that maybe he should try writing again. The last time he'd had this many feelings slamming around inside of him, he'd finished his sonata.

But this time, though he sat poised with his fingers above the keyboard in the darkness, nothing came to him. There was no muse directing his thoughts and channeling all those troublesome feelings.

He ran his hands down his tired face, trying to think of what he was doing there.

But after a hesitant moment, his hands started to play. It was something he hadn't played since he was a boy—when he was young, impressionable, naive.

Für Elise.

The universally appealing, the ubiquitous Für Elise.

Then he played Moonlight Sonata. And for the very first time since he'd ever played it, he felt a twinge of recognition—something inside of him that recognized the melancholy longing.

When he was done, he didn't even pause, he launched straight into the second movement of Pathetique.

Then Canon in D.

And Clair de Lune.

He played them all. All the pieces she'd requested, every single one, even the pop songs.

He didn't need to open the cookie jar to look at them, he knew the words on the messages by heart—just like these famous compositions, all of which he'd learned and never forgotten.

When he finished the last of them, he found he still wasn't tired. On the contrary, he was filled with something bright and warm as he launched into her very last request—when she'd asked him to play his original piece.

Never mind that she'd heard it already once that night, he played it again. And this time he gave himself the freedom—with no one present—to think about all the things that seemed to be building inside of him, to let those uncertainties and tight, tense hopes spiral out of him without any direction.

He made more mistakes on this rendition. It wasn't polished and careful, it was raw and real and it was somehow more powerful than it had ever been. If anything, the sense of yearning—the sheer  _grandness_  of it all—was actually stronger. The imperfections gave it depth.

He felt it tugging on his heart, and it was a strangely comforting thing, as it reminded him that despite all evidence to the contrary, and despite the perceptions of others, he still  _had_ one. He didn't use it often, but it was beating hard in his chest, racing faster than even his fingers could play.

He finished and sat panting, knowing there was nothing else to play, nothing to follow those notes, and still somehow the universe was waiting—he was waiting—for something.

As his breath finally calmed, and his heartbeat evened out so it wasn't so loud his ear, he heard the tiniest of nosies.

It was a soft, scrabbling sound, almost like a mouse, and it confused him. He looked around disoriented, but it came again, and so he followed it to his front door where he stood staring.

The next time it came, it was accompanied by a tiny whimper.

Feeling dazed, Ben opened the door silently. It swung open and only the very faintest of light from the open window spilled over into the hallway.

With his eyes still accustomed to the darkness, he could just make out a fat corgi sitting in the hall.

It looked up at him, jumping to its feet, looking overjoyed to see him. One paw rose up into the air, batting at nothing, as if wanting to shake.

Ben stared down at the dog, stupefied for a moment. Then he took a single step into the hall and looked up and down each direction.

There was no one in sight. It was the middle of the night, after all.

When he knelt down to examine the dog more closely, the fluffy body launched itself at him, trying to jump up to lick Ben's face. Fortunately for him, the Corgi was used to someone much smaller because he didn't quite reach, and Ben narrowly avoided doggie tongue all over his nose.

The tag that dangled just barely in sight, gleamed silver in the moonlight.

BB8, Apt C5.

As he'd guessed.

But what was BB8 doing out here by himself?

Reaching over, Ben picked up the small pup who immediately started squirming in his arms, trying to reach around to find a better angle to lick his new friend.

Ben carried him firmly in his arms and made his way down the hall to C5, right next door.

As he approached the door, the light from his own doorway got much fainter and he couldn't see anything in the pitchblack corridor.

His heart suddenly thumped hard in his chest as he wondered what to make of this moment when he finally got to meet the woman who had been leaving him all those messages.

He had to take a second to get his nerves under control. When he did, he heard a sound.

Sniffling.

Someone was crying. And it sounded like the apartment door was wide open, which must be how BB8 had gotten out.

Abruptly and irrationally concerned, he stepped towards the doorway and called out into the darkness beyond it, "Hello? Are you okay?"

Something fumbled in the dark apartment, and a small light snapped on, causing him to step back and blink rapidly as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden brightness.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he heard as footsteps scrambled up to him.

Then she was standing in front of him, and he was looking into the shocked face of the girl in the yellow dress.

The buns were gone, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. In place of the dress were cotton pajamas, brown and tan, with a pattern of paw prints and doggie bones.

And there were tear tracks running down her face again.

He thought how bizarre it was that she was still beautiful, even up close, and even when she'd clearly been crying.

Her face lit up when she recognized him, and for some reason that made him feel like there was something new and alive in his chest.

Of course, there was something alive  _against_  his chest, and BB8's wriggling reminded him of that. So Ben set him down so that he could run to his mistress.

"I'm so sorry," she said again, and the British accent that fell from her lips was totally captivating. "I didn't realize he'd gotten out. He usually won't go past the threshold without me."

She smiled at him, clearly a bit flustered, but otherwise not disturbed by the fact that they were strangers meeting for the first time in their pajamas in the middle of the night.

Except that they weren't strangers. Not really. They'd been communicating for months. He knew things about what she liked, the way she thought, the way she looked at life. And she knew things about him—visceral things—things about who he was, about how he felt. He rather thought she could see into him, into all the pieces no one else ever even noticed.

So he said something to her that he'd been wanting to tell her almost from the very first note that she'd left him. He hadn't planned on them being his first words, but they were right on the tip of his tongue as if he'd put them there on purpose.

"You have the taste of a peasant."

The beautiful neighbor blinked at him, as if she hadn't heard right. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your musical tastes," he clarified. "You have the taste of a peasant."

Her mouth opened and closed, as she looked for words to respond with.

Finally, after a tense moment of silence, her mouth shaped into a quirky grin, and she said, "Well, considering you're my favorite musician, I suppose you could very well be right. You'd certainly know better than I would."

The easy way she said it, and the fact that she'd called him her favorite, made him unable to stop the edges of his lips from curving upwards into an answering smile.

"And a 'song' has words," he added. "I play musical compositions, not songs."

"Noted," she said, with some humor. When she smiled at him, he felt flush from head to toe, and had to turn his gaze aside.

Looking over at the tiny booklight, he saw it sat beside a couch with a large, fuzzy blanket bunched up across it.

He turned to look at the front door, realizing now why it was wide open.

"Were you…were you listening to me play? Just now?"

She bit her lip, apparently thinking hard about her answer.

When she looked up at him, she seemed shy, and he found himself having an insatiable curiosity to know just what she was thinking.

"Weren't you playing for me?" she asked softly.

 _Had_  he been playing for her?

He supposed so. He'd been playing her requests, after all. But he rather thought he'd been playing for himself. He liked the feeling it gave him to know that she might be listening, that she might be enjoying the pieces that he was playing—that they might be connected for those moments.

But that was embarrassing to say, so he didn't answer her. Instead he observed, "I thought you usually ate ice cream when you did that."

She laughed at his response, and the musical sound of it reminded Ben of bells. Inwardly, he cringed at the fanciful thought. It was just a regular laugh, like anyone else might laugh…except that it danced over his ears and made him feel light-headed.

She wiped at her cheeks, at the remaining wetness from her tears, and said, "Actually, I was just going to get some ice cream now."

"Oh." He nodded, not knowing what else he could say to that, and feeling oddly like he'd pressured her into eating it to prove herself.

She looked at him, her expression unsure, and then looked towards the kitchen. Then she looked back at him still standing in her doorway, and her dog who was on the floor at his feet, his head and one floppy ear resting on Ben's pedal-foot.

She seemed to make her mind up about something and smiled hugely at him, causing all the thoughts to scatter from his brain. "Would you care to join me?"

He couldn't resist that smile. It was open and real and there was something about it that called to him.

"I suppose."

She smiled again, moving off in the darkness towards the kitchen. "What kind of ice cream do you like?" she asked, turning back.

"What kind do you have?" he returned.

Her face lit up again, clearly excited about the subject. "Well, all of them, really!" Her arms waved to indicate he could have his choice.

Her face was very expressive, more so than Ben's could ever be. He could watch the emotions flit across her face all day.

She continued looking at him expectantly, and he recalled that she'd asked him a question.

He thought about his cookie jar, empty but for her notes ever since he'd given up sugar. He thought about how he hadn't had ice cream in years, had never even craved it in his quest for physical discipline.

"Anything that's not mint," was what he told her, instead.

"Okay, no mint!" she said, closing the distance to the kitchen. She paused with her hand on the kitchen light, having noticed he was still standing in the doorway. "You can come in, you know," she said quietly.

He froze, staring at her. Positioned where she was in front of the window, the bright light from outside illuminated the lines of her face.

And he felt it again, that yearning—the one that inspired him into a creative frenzy.

He had a clamoring need to know what that face looked like sleeping quietly and limned with moonlight. He needed to know what her hand felt like resting quietly on his chest. He needed to feel her breath drifting softly across his face as she sighed at her dreams.

Images battered his brain, a thousand of them, one right after the other, so fast he couldn't even begin to process them all and didn't even try. The need rose in him sharp and aching, stealing his breath away.

There was something here—something that could be incredible, something that could be amazing. Something he couldn't possibly have recognized until he admitted that he  _wanted_ something incredible and amazing like this in his life.

She didn't seem to notice the revelation that was breaking across him. She gestured at the door and said, "Just make sure to close the door so BB8 doesn't get back out again.

He blinked, trying to process her instructions while the whirlwind of thoughts gently faded to the back of his mind, leaving only a strange and new lightness behind.

Turning, he shut the door, and then he and BB8 followed the paw print pajamas into the kitchen for ice cream.

"I'm Ben," he said, rather anticlimactically.

She smiled shyly and said, "I know. I'm Rey."

"I know," he echoed back.

He thought it was telling that neither asked how the other knew their name. Like maybe it just felt natural to think they'd always known. Like they'd always been just Ben and Rey.

"Why do you go by Kylo Ren when you play?" she asked, scooping out ice cream into soup bowls.

"Oh," he said, a tiny bit embarrassed at his pseudonym. "That's kind of a long story."

She paused mid-scoop and looked up, thinking. "So should I scoop twice as much ice cream, then?"

He looked at the rapidly filling bowls and calculated how long it would take them to eat it all. He thought about going back to his empty apartment where he'd left the door open.

"Maybe even more than that, actually," he casually suggested. "It could take...quite a while."

She seemed pleased at that answer and went to the freezer for a second container of ice cream. "Well, there's plenty!"

He saw it was packed with a variety of colorful containers in dozens of flavors.

"How many stories are you expecting me to tell?" he joked.

She laughed and said, "Why, do you take requests?"

She probably thought he'd laugh at this reference to their history together, but instead he just stared at her, his eyes intense and dark. When he was sure she was listening, he answered her, very seriously, "From you...I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're here at the ending! Thank you all so much for joining me on this little trip, my first foray into the Reylo world. I love this story a lot, but every time I reread it, I hit a point where I'm like, "What the hell was I thinking? This reads like a 13-year-old girl wrote it." But by the end of it, I love it again. And it's been such a relief to get all of your reviews and know that other people are enjoying it, too. If you've never read any of my other stories, you probably don't know, but this story is a bit out of my usual writing style. I like to write things that are stark and minimal, so that the very gentle and subtle emotions can have the chance to shine through. A lot of the times the meaning (and the romance) is in the words that don't get said, not in the words that are on the page. But this story is probably the most starkly told story of all the ones I've written, so much so it occasionally makes me cringe. But since you've bore with me all this time, hopefully you see what I was trying to do, and enjoy this little tale of beginnings and possibilities.
> 
> There is still a SMALL Epilogue coming up. And I'll put that out tomorrow, so that you don't have to wait so long.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for all of your comments and support, it's been so fun! And if any of you are Harry Potter Draco/Hermione shippers, and you like the gentle not-quite-romance of this story, I suggest you read my story 'Napster,' as 'Napster' and 'Nocturne' are kindred spirits in their storytelling.


	9. Epilogue

The music wasn't flowing right. He was hitting a block that was making everything stilted and choppy. The mechanics were good, the themes made sense, but there was something missing.

Ben had been struggling with it all night. Loathe to give it up, he continued on because he could tell he was only missing something very simple.

The night was getting late, though, and his brain was getting tired. He was making more mistakes and no breakthroughs.

Something soft hit the back of his head, and his hands fell heavily on the keys.

A screeching chord echoed in the air as the thing also bounced off the piano.

The moon was behind the clouds tonight, making the room quite dark. Turning quickly toward the door, he could just make out the barest of fabric fluttering in the doorway.

Without moving another muscle, his hands still poised above the keys, he put on his best menacing voice and said, "How. Dare. You. Interrupt my practice session."

The low rumble of his angry tone woke up the ball of fur that was sleeping halfway on his foot and halfway on the pedals of the piano.

BB8 darted out from under the bench, yapping protectively. He let out one courageous bay and leaped into the shadows.

A soft, feminine voice giggled and soothed the pup.

Ben could hear the slurping that accompanied enthusiastic face-licking and felt a moment of irritation at the betrayal.

"I'm working," he emphasized needlessly, reminding the two of his presence, still offended.

When the voice came again, it was closer. "Your practice session was already dead. You were getting nowhere. The pillow was just the death knell."

He felt arms come around his neck from behind. The light scent of vanilla soap that always reminded him of vanilla ice cream, wafted towards him. He turned slightly to take a deep breath, and reached his hand up to cover hers.

The hard, sharp lump that was the engagement ring he'd given her just a few weeks ago pressed against his palm. Even though he knew she couldn't see it in the darkness, he smiled at the fact that she still had it on even past bedtime.

It was a yellow diamond, bright like the dress that had caught his eye at Coruscant Hall, and shaped like a delicate crescent moon.

Rey thought it was because of Moonlight Sonata, her favorite request that he played for her whenever she asked him to.

He hadn't told her yet that it was because of that night when her notes had made him realize he wanted more out of life than he had. The night some force had driven him to write the final movement of his first creative masterpiece, Kismet Sonata.

The night that had changed his life.

He placed a kiss on the back of her hand, and felt her smile against the side of his neck.

"Come on, Ben," she wheedled him. "Let's go to bed. Close it up, and you can start again in the morning."

He sighed, unwilling to concede defeat. He knew he was on the verge of another breakthrough. He could feel it bubbling up inside him, simmering just under the surface.

Rey exhaled loudly, her arms slipping from his shoulders. "You're really going to let me sleep in your giant bed all alone, then? All alone and naked?"

Ben's heart gave one loud thump in his chest as a trickle of electricity shot down his fingertips.

Rey tsk-tsked as she walked back towards his bedroom— _their_  bedroom, really, since she'd moved in 6 months ago, much to Maz's delight. She hadn't even charged Rey the contract-breaking fee.

"You're not naked," Ben called out suspiciously to her retreating backside. He could still see the flutter of fabric as she disappeared through the open doorway.

There came a giggle floating through the air, and what might have been the sound of an overly large nightshirt—one of his, because she loved wearing them—hitting the floor.

"Are you sure?" she called back.

After only the briefest hesitation, he closed the piano lid. There were other ways to receive inspiration than clanging the keys in frustration. And much more effective, more pleasurable ways to ply his skills with his fingers.

He raced into the bedroom, following his heart with the ease of much practice, and shut the door behind him.

Poor BB8 had to wait quite a while before that door finally opened again to let him back into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! We're finished! I hope you enjoyed this little tale. I know I enjoyed the Reylo world, and will definitely be writing it again. I've already got the beginning of my next story written. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and encouraged me.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my pre-readers, Crysania (for her insights and expertise regarding the world of classical musicians), Anirak (for letting me bug her at all hours to get her opinion on random details), and of course, my best beta, Brandinm05, who didn't bat an eye when I said, "So I wrote this Reylo."
> 
> Finally, extra thanks to Kaarina Riddle who made the lovely cover art.
> 
> S&R: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW), which means, as always, that all reviews and comments are appreciated, including constructive criticism.
> 
>  


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